Familiarity
by Bag Of Badgers
Summary: It's been too long since they've last done this. ItaGer, light bondage, not for kids.


Germany is a regimented person.

He knows this, and he is working on it, but seventy years of habit are hard to shake and it is convenient for work, after all. It means he gets his job done, turns in the reports, everything on time, everything in its place.

Sometimes, though…

Sometimes, he doesn't _want_ to be regimented. To have to be in control. To work alone. To be unable to trust too deeply in others. To be Germany at all.

And he knows sometimes Veneziano wants nothing more than to be trusted, to be given control, to be really truly together with someone, not working, not allied, but _together_ for reasons that have nothing to do with politics, never have and never will.

So then Germany is just Ludwig and Veneziano is just Feliciano and they do not have to worry about public relations or policy or tariffs, about any of it.

This is one of those times.

Ludwig came to Feliciano's old house in Venice early this afternoon, since they hadn't really seen each other in a month and he was stressed and Feliciano had invited him, and he'd brought up the idea of what they're about to do—five minutes ago, actually, and Ludwig had stammered and sidetracked himself through the request as he always did.

Feliciano smiles at him, absently stirring the orzo cooking on the stove, and chirps "All right! Is after dinner okay?"

"I—yes." Ludwig clears his throat a little, shifting. "And, um, the safe—"

"Maybe we could color-code for the safeword?" How does Feliciano talk about this so nonchalantly, like—like _this_ is no different than what they could eat?

Maybe for him, it is, and Ludwig envies him that a little.

Soon enough, they are eating dinner, and Feliciano scoots his chair over to the side of Ludwig's while they sit around the small table and leans into his side as he eats. Occasionally his foot slides up Ludwig's leg, albeit a little clumsily, since playing footsie has never quite been Feliciano's strong point. After about the fifth time Feliciano does this, Ludwig glares at him, although he knows quite well that glaring doesn't seem to work on Feliciano (Feliciano has asked him, several times, what exactly "nei-nei-nei-ja" means and if there's anyone else who says it) and Feliciano just smiles and slips his arm around Ludwig's back.

A few moments later, Ludwig returns the motion.

Feliciano twists around enough to crane up and kiss him on the cheek, grinning that soft, wide grin of his, and says "Are you done?"

"Mostly, yes," but Ludwig can't continue because Feliciano has swung himself out of his chair and onto Ludwig's lap—_how_ is he so agile in matters like this?—and sits nose-to-nose, lips mere inches from Ludwig's own.

And then they're not, they're against his and soft and warm and his mouth tastes of buttery pasta and Ludwig sighs, they're _right_, that's what they are. They're right, Feliciano's kisses are always right even when they're in public and kissing while one of their bosses is even in the same building is still a little off for Ludwig, but they're secure and undemanding and don't push and pressure and force. Instead, his lips move gently, nudging Ludwig's mouth to open, and one slender hand cradles Ludwig's jawbone and the other rests at the back of his neck. Ludwig wraps his own arms around Feliciano, almost forgetting for a second that they haven't done the dishes and—and he can't think of other objections right now, he's been stressed out lately and sorely missed these moments, the quiet and soft and sweet of Feliciano kissing him.

Feliciano pulls back, barely, still so close that Ludwig can feel his every breath, and says "I missed you," so quietly Ludwig's not entirely sure if he heard it.

He answers anyway. "I missed you, too."

"Mm. Missed doing this," and Feliciano kisses him again, pressing himself so close Ludwig can feel his heartbeat through their shirts, and he knows he's beginning to blush and he doesn't care that much, and after so long together the little voice that says _stop it, you're being indecent_ has nearly gone away the times it should, and Ludwig kisses Feliciano back and grips Feliciano's shirt.

Eventually (a little part of his mind says far too soon), they pull away, and Feliciano mutters "Not going to suggest cleaning up?"

"Well, if you _insist_." Ludwig makes as if to get up, and Feliciano half-laughs and doesn't move an inch from Ludwig's lap and Ludwig honestly doesn't mind at all, a month is far too long even though they have Skype, and he's moved one hand up to the back of Feliciano's head, soft, curly hair tousling beneath his fingers. Leaning in close again, Feliciano nips at Ludwig's lips, and one hand moves from his neck to begin toying with the buttons on Ludwig's shirt.

Ludwig is not one to lose track of time, but he begins to as the kisses become slower and deeper, more fervent, and the hand in his hair begins to pull, and Feliciano straddles Ludwig in the not-very-comfortable chair and rolls his hips flat against Ludwig's.

"I think—" Feliciano says breathily, lowly, just as Ludwig says "Bed?", and Feliciano nods—his eyes are clear, brown and deep, and they shine a little as they meet Ludwig's, and sometimes it's hard to believe anyone could look at him like that—and slips off him, taking Ludwig's broad hand in his soft ones, and they hurry up the narrow stairs into the bedroom. By the time they're there, Feliciano's got Ludwig's shirt half undone and Ludwig has thoroughly mussed Feliciano's hair and they stumble into the bedroom, Feliciano giggling and Ludwig smiling.

A little bit of his ever-present nervousness has reentered the equation, as it clicks in Ludwig's mind that they're really _doing_ this, they're really going to go through with it—

—Feliciano quite nearly leaps into his arms, knocking them both back onto the low bed, and almost as soon as Ludwig registers the change Feliciano's mouth is back against his own, all familiar, longed-for insistence and the beginnings of bites, sloppy and fervent and_ God_ has Ludwig missed this. Fingers slipping up underneath the hem of Ludwig's shirt, Feliciano is making the little "mm" noises so familiar to Ludwig even when he hasn't heard them for far too long, and then Ludwig's shirt is off—_somehow_, Feliciano has a hidden talent for not only stripping himself, but others—and Feliciano's fingers are around his wrists and holding them down, thumbs brushing the insides of Ludwig's palms.

The thing about this is, Ludwig could break away. Any time he wanted, he could pull away from Feliciano easily—so easily—and roll them over, be the one pinning Feliciano, completely take control. He _could_.

But he won't. Ludwig doesn't pull away from the slender, strong fingers holding him, the hot, smiling mouth seeking his out, the warm, willowy body pinning him down, because the point is that he doesn't have control, that he doesn't have to. That even though he doesn't, it's still okay.

As quickly as Feliciano was on him, he's off him, rolling to the side, although not before he rolls his hips one last time. Feliciano begins to rifle through the bedside drawers, and Ludwig props himself up on his elbows to watch. He mumbles to himself as he searches, "No—no, I think it was here—where _did_ I put them—?"

He's nearly falling off the bed, and Ludwig places a preemptive hand on his ankle, watching the twist and curve of Feliciano's back as he digs around in the bottom drawer and eventually emerges victorious, beaming.

"Uh—okay, I've got the blindfold, a gag, and some ties—um, can we not use the gag, though?" Feliciano looks up at Ludwig through his long, dark eyelashes. "It's too hard to kiss you when you're wearing it."

"All right."

Feliciano flings the gag over his shoulder and Ludwig feels a momentary twinge of _go put that back in its proper place_ but it's extremely difficult to act on when Feliciano is back on top of him and enthusiastically demonstrating just what it's so hard to do when Ludwig is gagged, which seems to involve heated and ardent applications of tongue. Ludwig isn't sure who exactly it is that rolls them over, but it happens and Ludwig is lying on Feliciano, whose hands move from his chest to slide down his back and into his pants and squeeze—

—and Ludwig makes a noise that is _not_ a squeak thank you very much. Feliciano's hands stay on Ludwig's backside, and he chirps "You make really cute noises, you know?"

"I _don't_."

Feliciano cocks an eyebrow, smiling beatifically, and gooses him again. "Yeah, you do!" He wiggles underneath Ludwig, pressing himself closer, and Ludwig decides not to argue the point further because Feliciano just did a _thing_ with his hips and _yes_ if he'd do that again please. They roll again, Feliciano seems a little indecisive about how exactly he wants to do this, and—

—only quick action on Ludwig's part prevents them from falling off the bed. Feliciano slides down anyway, pulling Ludwig down with him until he's pinned between Feliciano and the side of the bed, and they kiss again, and Feliciano _bites_ so hard Ludwig can't stifle a groan, and then his fingers are in Ludwig's hair and pulling and his hips roll again and he makes this odd sort of breathy half-growl that sounds honestly very strange in Feliciano's light tenor.

They both pull back, and Feliciano's eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, and Ludwig can't look away from the way his lips shape around the "Do you want to put on the blindfold now?"

Ludwig nods.

Feliciano reaches across Ludwig and onto the bed, grabbing for the blindfold, and kisses the very tip of Ludwig's nose as he ties it on, slowly and carefully, the way he always does. Ludwig can imagine the smile on his face as he pulls away, soft and wide and white-toothed, and he flushes a little—he can't help it, really.

"O-kay," Feliciano says cheerily, "and now I think you should probably not have clothes on anymore." Ludwig is about to say that it's hardly fair if Feliciano hasn't even taken his shirt off yet, but then Feliciano slides his hands down Ludwig's chest and stomach to his belt and undoes it alarmingly quickly and then his hands are—oh Lord they're in his pants and palming him, one sliding around to dart into his boxers and grab at his backside again and the other—oh _God_.

"You squeaked again!" Does Feliciano sound—_gleeful_? Ludwig would roll his eyes, if the gesture could have been noted. Instead, he raises his eyebrows as Feliciano pulls Ludwig's pants down his thighs, and shifts a little uncomfortably as his boxers follow them. He knows it's really a little ridiculous to be self-conscious when this...sort of thing has been going on between them for years and years, but even though he can't see he can _feel_ Feliciano's eyes on him.

There's a cheery "Hm!" from in front of Ludwig, and Feliciano shuffles even closer and reaches around to begin tying Ludwig's hands behind his back with the soft cloth. When he's done, he runs his hands up Ludwig's arms to settle on his shoulders and gives him a quick peck on the lips, so light Ludwig's not entirely sure whether it happened.

"Is that okay?" Feliciano murmurs. "Not too tight?"

"It's fine."

Feliciano hums again, and his hands drop from Ludwig's shoulders to run over him again, just—touching, scratching lightly along his chest and tickling the insides of his thighs, and he laughs quietly every time Ludwig squirms a little, trying to accustom himself again to the way Feliciano nuzzles at the space right under his ear and rubs circles into his hipbones.

Feliciano's hips are rocking into his, Ludwig notices, minutely but there, and he's nearly straddling Ludwig now, and when he kisses he pulls the hair at the back of Ludwig's head so he's the one leaning up into the kiss. Suddenly, though, he's not—the warm body is gone from his lap, the soft mouth has left, the quick hands no longer scratch and stroke, and Ludwig is surprised to find himself disoriented, blindfolded and separated from the man he _knows_ can't be more than three feet away.

There are footsteps to his left, quick and light, and then the soft, fabric sound of someone sitting on the bed, and a hand—_Feliciano's_ hand—settles in his hair, tousling the strands.

"Turn around?"

He does, on his knees, and his nose bumps Feliciano's knee. There is a faint giggle, and then there are fingers on his lips, and a thumb, faint calluses from paintbrushes and, Ludwig knows, little flecks of paint beneath the nails and in the lines, because he knows Feliciano's hands like he knows his own. Before he can stop himself, Ludwig kisses the tip of Feliciano's thumb, quickly, and he can almost _hear_ Feliciano's smile.

"You're sure you want to do this?"

Feliciano always asks that, ever since the first time they tried this, and Ludwig answers with a nod, like he has every time they tried this.

"And you remember the safeword, right?"

Another nod.

Ludwig leans into Feliciano's touch as Feliciano cradles Ludwig's jaw in one hand and kisses his forehead, lightly, and his thumb swipes over Ludwig's lips to the corner of his mouth, and he says "Move forwards a little please?"

He shuffles forwards on his knees, and then there is the faint clink of a belt buckle and the rustle of clothing and a hand on the back of his head nudging him forward, and Ludwig closes his eyes behind the blindfold and opens his mouth.

It's been too long since he's last done this, since he's last been intimate with Feliciano at all, and Feliciano lets out a ragged "Oh—oh _wow_" as he thrusts in minutely. Soon it turns into soft "mm"s and his hands don't stop moving over Ludwig's head and neck, now dragging through his hair, now resting on the sides of his face, and that is familiar too.

Feliciano shudders above him, fingers tightening in Ludwig's hair, and Ludwig hollows his cheeks and slides his mouth down as far as he can. It's a little clumsy, he can't see or use his hands, but he knows how to do this and he must be doing something right, anyway, judging by the way Feliciano moans when Ludwig moves his head back up, shifting from sucking to licking. His cheeks are flushed, he knows, and he can imagine the dark pink spreading across Feliciano's round face, and the "o"-shape of his mouth and the curve of his spine. The hand on his head pushes him forward again, and Ludwig gags slightly, nose brushing the hair at Feliciano's base.

Feliciano mumbles in Italian somewhere above him, dialect shifting back and forth from Venetian to Paduan, and his words slide down Ludwig's spine to curl up at its base. Ludwig bobs his head in response, and he feels calm, so calm, and there is nothing else demanding his attention but Feliciano, no graphs or reports, and Feliciano's warm hands flit from his scalp to his face and Ludwig leans into them.

He's not sure entirely how long he stays there, knelt in front of Feliciano, but eventually his head is nudged backwards and off, and then there is another fabric sound, and the bed creaks the tiniest bit, and then Feliciano is in front of him and kissing him, quietly, hands on his shoulders. Feliciano slips a hand down, between Ludwig's thighs, squeezes him gently, just enough that his breath stutters.

"Stand up?" Feliciano whispers.

Ludwig does, knees stinging a little from the carpet.

Feliciano touches the small of his back, gently, and guides him to bend over the edge of the bed, the side of his face pressed into the soft sheets. Ludwig feels Feliciano sit next to him, and there's the _pop_ of a lube container.

A kiss is pressed to Ludwig's shoulder, and a finger is pressed inside.

Feliciano moves it so slowly, so gently, that Ludwig actually whimpers, and then turns even redder—his face is nearly burning, and Feliciano knows Ludwig's body as well as Ludwig knows Feliciano's, and his finger brushes against _that spot_ and Ludwig's hips, entirely outside of his control, twitch back.

Meanwhile, Feliciano's lips have moved up along the slope of Ludwig's shoulder to his neck and Ludwig knows Feliciano knows about how sensitive his neck is that's not entirely fair_—oh God—_

Ludwig groans a little, and Feliciano smiles against his neck before biting, hard, and there'll be a mark in the morning, Ludwig knows, but it doesn't matter when he simultaneously pushes in the next two fingers, Feliciano's always been just a bit impatient when they do this. But then, it's not really impatience so much as it is—Ludwig's not sure what it is, besides good and oh-god-like-that-again-_please_.

Shaking, Ludwig rocks his hips back again. His legs hurt a little, not bad, but the position he's in is a bit awkward and his knees are bent oddly to accommodate it. The way Feliciano spreads his fingers apart, stretching, is quite a distraction, though, and Ludwig balls his hands into fists and bites his lip. He twists back and manages to kiss Feliciano on what must be right beneath his eye—it is, his cheek curves just _so_ there, and then Feliciano laughs quietly and kisses him on the temple and slides his fingers deeper, and then nearly out.

And then in again, slowly, so slowly it takes all of Ludwig's rapidly fraying self-control not to writhe, and his mouth drops open and his eyebrows slide up. Stroking Ludwig's hair out of his face, Feliciano crooks his fingers just _so_ and holds them there.

"A-aah—"

"You like that?"

Ludwig would fix him with his most incredulous look if he had the capacity for doing so right now, but instead he groans again and nods.

Feliciano nuzzles against Ludwig's neck, and Ludwig can picture him stretched out next to him, one hand in Ludwig's hair and the other stretched down, fingers buried deep, and the way his legs are folded so they brush against Ludwig's side, and the smile that is doubtless on his face.

Those slender fingers press just a little deeper, and he can't hold back the next "ohh" that escapes his lips.

It's... odd, really, how Feliciano is never _forceful_ these times. Rough, yes, forward, yes, but he's never been forcing—never tried to hurt Ludwig, never gone ahead uncaring, and there's no way Ludwig can think of to express his gratitude, because Feliciano's always been better at that as well. What Ludwig can do, though, is make sure Feliciano knows he's okay, he can do this, and he does, with faint pants and gasps as Feliciano's fingers continue their motions inside him.

Definitely too soon, Feliciano pulls his fingers out, nosing at Ludwig's jaw. When he whispers "Are you ready?" his breath is warm and damp in Ludwig's ear, and Ludwig whispers back "Yes, yes" and parts his legs a little further, still not in the most comfortable of positions. The weight is gone from beside him, and there are palms running down his back to his hips, and lips pressed to his spine, and a vague hum of appreciation—and then—

—Feliciano pushes in, just as slowly as he had with his fingers, and Ludwig realizes five seconds too late that he's mouthing _please_ into the mattress, and Feliciano's hand twines with his own bound ones for just a second before it digs into his hips and Feliciano begins to thrust.

It's as though Ludwig's head is full of a kind of fog, through which the small noises Feliciano makes, the _oh-god_s and _mm_s and _loveyou_s (these last spoken as all one word, as though the concepts are inseparable, and they crowd the back of Ludwig's head until he thinks he might fall apart—_God he's missed this—him—all of it_) slip clear as bells, and the constant sensations—the in-out-in, the way Feliciano pulls Ludwig's hips back but he's definitely not doing all the work there, the way he bends close to Ludwig and kisses and whispers and bites, even the feel of cloth at his wrists and against his face—slide up from his hips and down from his head and all through his body, and everything else seems so far away—it's just him and Feliciano and the sheets beneath his torso.

Ludwig's heart races in his chest as Feliciano's pace becomes quicker, more emphatic, and they try to establish some sort of rhythm and fail, and fail, and fail, but that doesn't matter, because the irregularity—how Feliciano sometimes slows his hips to deeper, rolling motions or quickens in sharp bursts, how Ludwig is caught between rocking his hips back against Feliciano or moving forwards against the bed to gain some kind of relief—makes it all the better, all the sweeter.

Feliciano definitely is picking up speed, though, and his thrusts make Ludwig's breath come short and quick and his jaw drop and he realizes the person moaning after every thrust is himself, and then one of Feliciano's hands is in his hair and pulling—

—"_Ahhh!_"—

—and Feliciano tugs Ludwig's head back and bites down on his neck, _God_ that _stings_ and it makes his back arch and curve and it drives Feliciano further inside of him, and his toes and fingers curl, and before Ludwig knows it he cries out, legs shaking, flush spreading down across his chest.

"Please!"

"Please what?" Feliciano's movements slow again, and Ludwig makes a noise of protest. The hand not in Ludwig's hair has already begun to move downwards from his hipbone, along the v-shape of his hips, and Feliciano's voice, still a light tenor, has become lower, a little earthier, and strained.

"I—ahh—" It's always so embarrassing to say these things, to plead, is and always has been, and he knows he's red all over, but _God_ he just _needs_— "—Let me come, _please_—"

Feliciano's hand covers the little remaining distance and wraps around him, and Ludwig's knees nearly give out then and there.

They don't, though, and Ludwig bucks into Feliciano's hand and curls his fingers into fists and squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold, mouthing pleas and curses into the air. Feliciano answers him with talented fingers and words said into his neck, little _so good_s and _bello, bello_s and _Iloveyou_s, and it is with these quiet words ringing in his mind, with Feliciano finally _there_, that Ludwig bites down on his lip, shakes, and comes.

Through the hazy aftermath, Feliciano is still moving, and it might be a minute and it might be a thousand years before he cries out and jerks his hips one last time. When he pulls away from Ludwig and lets go of his hair, Ludwig slides to his knees, still panting.

He should not feel lost when Feliciano is right there, but he can't touch him, can't feel him, and it's cold, sweat drying on his skin.

Hands on his shoulders—_Feliciano's_ hands on his shoulders—pull him upwards and forwards, and Ludwig realizes through the fog that Feliciano is trying to get him onto the bed. His legs wobble dangerously as he tries to help, but they manage, and Feliciano pulls Ludwig to his warm body and clumsily unties his hands. He unties the blindfold next, and Ludwig winces a little at the sudden light, squeezing his eyes shut.

Resting his head against Feliciano's chest—he had, at some point, removed his clothes, and it would be useless to wonder entirely when, since sudden clothing loss was another of Feliciano's talents—Ludwig wraps his arms around Feliciano's waist and opens his eyes.

Feliciano sighs happily, stroking Ludwig's hair. "That was _good_."

Ludwig nods, too tired to say anything.

"I'm glad you're back," and Feliciano cuddles closer and kisses him, and they're both sticky and need to take a shower, and they're too warm and too finally _there_ to move, curled up in each other.

This is familiar, and there are no tariffs and no reports, and Ludwig does not have to think about Germany at all.


End file.
